


If You Want a Spoonful of Sugar, Get Mary Poppins

by RileyC



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DCU - Comicverse, Smallville, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark mixed it up with Brainiac, lost his powers, caught a cold, and thinks he's dying. Bruce channels his warm fuzzy side. Vick's VapoRub is discovered to be an aphrodisiac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Want a Spoonful of Sugar, Get Mary Poppins

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 30_random_kisses prompt: Medicine.

_How did humans stand this?_ Clark shifted restlessly against the mattress, in a futile search for a comfortable spot. He ached all over. One minute he felt like he was burning up, the next he couldn’t get warm no matter how deeply he huddled into the blankets. His couldn’t breathe; his head felt stuffy and achy. His throat was raw and it hurt to swallow, and he was fairly certain he’d lost his voice.

The only good thing, he supposed, was that with his powers weakened, he could sneeze and not blow a hole through his roof.

According to J’onn, he’d contracted a cold when his powers were sapped during an off world battle with Brainiac. J’onn wouldn’t lie to him, right? If Brainiac had infected him with some lethal virus, J’onn would have said so and kept him quarantined on the Watchtower. Clark sighed and shifted position again. He really hoped J’onn hadn’t just sent him home to die in his own bed. It was the kind of thoughtful gesture J’onn might make, though.

His telephone went off and he glared at it over on the nightstand. He tried to work up enough energy to incinerate with his heat vision, but nothing happened. Well, except except that now his eyes itched. He sighed and dropped his head back on the pillow, deciding to wait it out. It would probably be Lois anyway, ready to tell him, _“Suck it up and get back out there, Smallville!”_ He really didn’t feel up to Lois right now.

The phone stopped ringing and he closed his eyes, more fatigued than he could remember. He wished he could go to sleep. What did people do when they had insomnia? Count sheep? Letting his thoughts drift back to the farm, he pictured a flock of fluffy white sheep out in the field. He could almost feel the warmth of the sun beating down on him, and wanted to tilt his head back to soak it up. He wanted to launch himself into the air and soar high above the clouds, until those healing rays tingled all the way through his body.

Right now, he couldn’t even float above the covers, however, so he went back to the frolicking sheep. It didn’t seem to be working. Clark was fairly certain the black-faced one had been by three times already. Sleep proved elusive as ever – and somebody was letting themselves into his apartment.

So far as he knew, no one had a key to his apartment. Not that a piddling little detail like a lock would slow down Lois. Or… But no, the other prime suspect for breaking into his home uninvited was even more terrifying. Lois Lane in full steamroller mode was as a gnat to a wolf, compared.

 _Just go away, please. Let me die in peace_ , he prayed. To no avail, as he heard his bedroom door cracked open, and the most terrifying voice in the entire universe said, “Clark, where’s your tea kettle?”

Groaning, he buried his head under a pillow. “Go away, Bruce,” he said – or tried to. The strangled croak that emerged was barely intelligible to his own ears.

Not that it would have mattered. Bruce would still pull the pillow and blankets away and stand there glaring down at him. You would have thought he had deliberately caught a cold just to aggravate Batman. Shivering, he snatched blankets back and scowled right back at Bruce. Clark wanted to demand what he was doing there, but his throat ached just thinking about it.

Bruce sighed and shook his head, and something in his expression seemed to soften. “Come on, let’s get you straightened up,” he said, and dragged the covers away again. “Come on,” he said, more insistent as he tugged Clark out of bed.

If his powers were at full strength, Bruce wouldn’t have been able to budge him if Clark didn’t want him to. As it was, putting up only an embarrassingly feeble resistance, Clark found himself out of bed and pushed along to the bathroom almost before he knew what hit him. He fixed a resentful look on Bruce as the other man turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature.

Bruce’s only acknowledgement was to tell him, “Trust me on this: you’ll feel better after a hot shower.”

Clark really, _really_ doubted that. Since Bruce looked prepared to physically haul him into the shower, still dressed, he decided to give in, and exhaled a petulant breath. He backed it up with a matching look as he started peeling off his t-shirt.

By the time he got the shirt off, he was alone in the bathroom. He thought about ignoring Bruce’s orders and going straight back to bed, but … he had to admit, the steamy warmth of the shower was awfully attractive just at the moment. He thought about it pouring down over him, and could almost feel it pulse against his skin. He undid the drawstring of his sweats and let them fall to the floor and, stepping under the water, turned his face up into it.

The shower did feel wonderful. Wet heat cascaded over his body, easing the bone-deep ache in his muscles. It even brought some relief to the congestion in his head and chest. He reached for the soap and lathered it over his chest and shoulders, massaging it in circles down over his stomach. It made some of his still healing cuts sting a bit, but that was all right. Just being clean felt good. By the time Clark emerged from the shower he had to admit Bruce had known best – as usual.

A fluffy towel had been set out for him, along with a fresh pair of sweats and a t-shirt – the dirty ones stuffed in the hamper. He dried off quickly and was just tying the drawstring when there was a rapid knock on the door and Bruce stuck his head in.

“Good, I thought you might have drowned,” Bruce said, and looked him up and down.

That intense gaze lingered on his bare chest and stomach, long enough that Clark began to feel uncomfortable. He wondered what disagreeable flaw Bruce had discovered, and tugged at the sweats riding low on his hips. He tried speaking again, and just about managed to ask, “Why are you here?”

The raspy croak wasn’t much better this time, but Bruce must have read his lips. A grumpy look crossed his face as he said, “J’onn told me what happened.” For a moment he looked downright angry, and Clark supposed J’onn must have interrupted Bruce in the middle of some important investigation. Although he couldn’t quite see how that explained why Bruce had come here.

Expression changing again, something exasperated but gentle in his eyes, Bruce reached for another towel. “You’re dripping everywhere,” he murmured, and began to dry Clark’s hair.

Clark had to fight to keep from enjoying the sensation as Bruce briskly rubbed the towel over his head. Because this had to mean something truly dire was going on. There was no other way to explain Bruce being so … nice. Still, it did feel good, and Clark was almost sorry when his hair was dry and Bruce handed him the t-shirt.

“Come on, back to bed with you now,” Bruce said, and led him back to the bedroom.

Fresh sheets and plumped pillows greeted Clark, and he aimed a dubious look at Bruce. Was Alfred hidden around here somewhere? Bruce must have read that in his expression, because he said, a defensive note in his voice, “Believe it not, I do actually know how to make a bed. Now come on, in you go,” he added, urging Clark to get into bed.

Since the relief brought on by his hot shower was proving to be temporary, Clark didn’t put up much of a protest. He settled back and sighed as Bruce pulled up the sheet and settled a cozy, warm quilt around him. He recognized the quilt, and Bruce nodded, smiling. “It’s the one your mother gave me for Christmas. I thought you might like it.”

He did; his Ma had made one for him, too, but Krypto had disgraced himself all over it. There wasn’t a cleaning product on Earth that could get _those_ stains out.

“Better?” Bruce asked as Clark put his head on a pillow and closed his eyes with another deep sigh.

He opened them again as he felt Bruce’s hand rest against his forehead. That touch was so wonderfully cool, Clark wanted to turn his whole face into it. He nodded, and closed his eyes again. To his surprise, instead of withdrawing the touch, Bruce stroked those cool fingers across his forehead a couple of times. He didn’t mind, though, not at all. He could have rested there all day with Bruce softly touching him. He couldn’t stop a contented sound, either, as the fingers slid up into his hair for a moment.

“That will be the kettle,” Bruce said, as a whistling sound started up. There was a rough sound to his voice, and Clark hoped he wasn’t giving Bruce his cold. “Alfred sent his special chicken soup. He said he’s reasonably certain I can’t burn it.” He smiled, cool hand cupped along Clark’s burning cheek. “It won’t actually cure what ails you, but it will make you feel better.”

Clark nodded and managed a faint smile. The realization he must actually be dying abruptly settled over him. J’onn must have told him this was just a cold out of a sense of kindness, so he wouldn’t be alarmed.

As he watched Bruce leave the room to see to the shrilly whistling kettle, Clark decided that, if it meant Bruce being nice to him, dying might not be so bad.

~*~

Bruce surveyed the breakfast tray Alfred had sent along. There was a pot of tea, with honey and lemon, and a fine-boned China cup. A bowl of soup, filled to the correct level with broth and noodles, chunks of chicken, onion, carrots and more, all mingling into a mouth-watering aroma of herbs and spices that scented the air. The appropriate cutlery was present, along with a linen napkin in a silver ring. “Are you sure this enough, Alfred?” he asked.

 _Over the phone, Alfred’s reply was firm. “Soup and tea will do quite well, sir.”_

Bruce was of a mind it was a little skimpy, though. “What about some toast? I could make him some toast.”

 _“Master Bruce,” voice stern as Bruce had ever heard it, Alfred told him, “under no circumstances are you to touch that young man’s toaster.”_

Bruce glowered at the phone and made a grumbling sound deep in his throat. “I set fire to _one_ toaster, _one_ time, and you never let me hear the end of it.” It probably hadn’t even been his fault; that toaster had probably been defective. “Isn’t it feed a cold, starve a fever?”

 _“The soup will suffice, sir.”_

Well, if Clark wanted anything else, Bruce supposed he could always send out for it.

He carried the tray back to Clark’s bedroom. He walked in to find him resting in bed, but with a pensive, troubled expression. Well, if you were accustomed to being invulnerable, never a sick day in your life, even a cold would take some getting used to. The discovery that Clark had gotten sick as a consequence of battling Brainiac, while Bruce had known nothing of it, had knocked _him_ for more of a loop than he cared to admit.

The news had greeted him when he had resurfaced from an undercover operation. Dick had been heading out on patrol with Tim, and had turned back to tell him Martian Manhunter had been trying to get in touch. Anticipating a report of routine League business, Bruce had felt a knot of anger – anger, not fear, he wanted to be very clear on that -- form in his stomach as he was brought up to date. Anger at Clark for going off to fight Brainiac without backup, anger at Brainiac for hitting Clark with a ray that sapped his powers and left him vulnerable; even anger at the damn virus that had found Clark at the exact moment it could take root and hurt him.

Mostly, though, he had been furious at himself for being off playing footsie with mobsters while Clark was in danger.

The largest part of his anger had faded by the time he had arrived here – until he’d seen the bruises and raw abrasions that stood out so starkly on Clark’s otherwise perfect skin. Right at that moment, Bruce had wanted to go find Brainiac and dismantle the android in the most painful way possible.

As for his other reaction to the sight of a half-naked Clark Kent, sweats so low on his hips he could imagine they were about to slip completely free any second… Yes, well, that didn’t bear dwelling on right now, he decided, and firmly shut down that train of thought.

It would have helped, however, if Clark could be like everyone else when they were sick – Bruce included -- and look like something the cat had dragged in. But no, even under the weather and rundown, Clark still looked inhumanly beautiful. Maybe a bit wilted around the edges, but even that carried a kind of woebegone charm.

“Feeling any better?” he asked, setting the tray down.

Clark replied with a half-hearted shrug. Not accustomed to a glum Man of Steel, Bruce wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He wanted to fall back on his customary brusque and gruff approach, but that would hardly help right now. If he could see Dick and Tim through colds and fevers, chicken pox and countless skinned knees and elbows, he could do this. At least a bad case of the sniffles was all it amounted to – he had triple checked J’onn’s data to be sure. The purpling bruises and tender scrapes bothered him more, just as the injuries Dick and Tim’s acquired out on patrol gave him far more sleepless nights than any injury of his own.

“Come on,” he adjusted the tray over Clark’s lap and sat beside him, “give this a try. It’ll do you good.”

Skeptical blue eyes conveyed Clark’s thoughts on that, but he accepted the cup of tea Bruce handed him. Cradling the delicate cup between his hands, he breathed in the steam and took a tentative sip. He smiled a bit and nodded, and took another drink.

“The tea and honey will help your throat,” Bruce said, shaking out the napkin and, after a moment’s hesitation, tucking it into the neck of Clark’s t-shirt. “The soup will help, too, as well as provide some nourishment.”

“Not hungry,” Clark whispered, his voice still strained and raspy, but not quite putting Bruce in mind of sandpaper now.

“Give it a try, you might be surprised.” Bruce skimmed the spoon through the soup, catching broth, a noodle and some chicken. “Come on, open up,” he coaxed, holding the spoon to Clark’s lips.

Blue eyes stared back at him, wide and disbelieving. Bruce didn’t blame him. If he didn’t know better, he’d want to know what happened to the real Bruce Wayne, too. After a moment, though, Clark’s lips parted and he took the spoonful of soup. He held the mouthful for an instant, as if checking to make sure he liked it, and then swallowed it on down and nodded again. “It’s good,” he whispered, and took another spoonful.

Far too absorbed in watching Clark lick his lips, Bruce handed him the spoon. “Here, you can manage by yourself.”

An anxious look on his face, Clark whispered, “You’re leaving?”

“What? No,” Bruce shook his head. “Just…” He gave Clark a searching look. “Do you want me to leave?”

Clark gave his head a vehement shake, black curls tumbling over his forehead.

“All right.” Bruce hesitated a moment, then gave in and reached over to brush the unruly hair out of Clark’s eyes. “I just thought you would want to feed yourself.”

“Oh. Okay.” Clark smiled happily and ate some more soup, emptying the bowl before very long. “More?” he asked, with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

Bruce couldn’t help smiling back, and nodded as he took the bowl. “Alfred sent plenty, don’t worry.” He got up from the bed and started for the door, then turned back. “Do you want anything else?”

Clark looked at the tray, then at Bruce, and shook his head.

“All right, I’ll be right back.”

Clark nodded and reached for the tea.

~*~

Clark watched Bruce leave and really hoped he wasn’t secretly dying. Although, if almost dying was what it took for Bruce to smile at him, and touch him, Clark thought he might be willing to try it every now and then.

~*~

He had to know for sure, though. So, after he’d had another bowl of soup – with some crackers this time – and Bruce had cleared away the tray, Clark asked, “Bruce, will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?” His throat still felt sore, but not as bad as before. Whether that was thanks to his powers starting to return, or the combined effect of the honeyed tea and the soup, he was just glad to have his voice back.

Bruce gave him a guarded look, but said, “I always tell you the truth, Clark. What is it?”

No use beating around the bush, he decided, and asked straight out. “Do I really just have a cold, or am I actually dying?”

Bruce’s expression cleared for a moment, as if he had expected some other kind of question, but then he frowned. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

Clark blinked, not understanding why Bruce was so upset. He shrugged. “I’ve never felt this awful without almost actually dying.”

Still glowering, Bruce said, “You’ve got a cold. Nobody dies of a cold.”

Although he wasn’t entirely sure that was true, Clark decided Bruce wouldn’t get all cranky with him unless he really was going to be all right. “How can something feel so awful and not kill you?”

Bruce replied with a faint shrug, still a little put out. “It’s just something you get used to after awhile.” He put his hand against Clark’s forehead again. “I think your temperature’s coming down,” he said, voice and expression softer now.

Clark sighed and wished Bruce would leave his cool, gentle fingers right there, against his cheek. “I don’t feel hot.”

Bruce smiled as if he’d said something funny, but Clark didn’t get the joke. “How about muscle aches? Headache?” He stroked his fingers across Clark’s forehead again. “I stopped at a pharmacy and picked up some aspirin and stuff.”

Thinking about it, Clark shook his head. “My back’s a little sore, but not too bad.”

“You sure? Some aspirin might help.”

“No, I think it will be all right.” He could feel a far off prickly sensation, like a tickle or itch running through his nerve endings. That told him his powers were gradually coming back. The transition wasn’t far enough along to keep him from coughing, though. That congested feeling was back, too. It all felt a little better as he leaned forward and let Bruce rub his back.

As he settled back against the pillows, though, he gave Bruce a slightly lopsided smile. “Is there anything that would help me breathe?”

“As a matter of fact,” Bruce leaned across him to fetch a paper bag from the nightstand, and Clark tried not to react as Bruce’s body brushed against him, “there is something that might help.” He reached into the bag and came up with a small, green jar that had Vick’s VapoRub on its label.

Clark made a face as Bruce unscrewed the lid and waved the jar under his nose. “I eat it?” he asked, not at all sure about _that_. Bruce looked as if he’d said something really hilarious this time.

“That’s not advised, no,” Bruce said, scooping up some of the paste onto his fingers. His expression turning uncertain then, Bruce said, “Uh, hike up your t-shirt.”

Hike up his…? “Umm…”

“Clark, this isn’t the time for maidenly reserve.” Bruce blithely ignored the hard look Clark leveled at him. “It has to be applied topically.”

Clark’s eyebrows disappeared in his bangs. This could be a really bad idea. And yet … could he really pass up an opportunity like this when it practically fell on him? “Okay,” he said, and lifted his shirt.

Bruce didn’t immediately apply the ointment. He took a few moments to simply look, and Clark could feel that penetrating gaze pass over his skin like a caress. “Your wounds are starting to fade.”

Clark nodded. “I think my powers are coming back.” He had known they would, provided he didn’t die of a cold in the meantime, but the confirmation was always welcome. He always felt as if his equilibrium was out of whack in some profound way when he lost them.

He shivered as Bruce began to apply the ointment. It felt cool at first, but grew warmer as Bruce rubbed it into his chest. Was that normal, or some special catalytic reaction, the ointment sparking the connection between the two of them? Was he crazy to think there was any connection?

“It feels good,” he said. Then he wrinkled his nose. “But it smells terrible.”

Bruce flashed him a quick grin. “It does, but that’s actually a good sign if you can smell it. It means the ingredients are working and clearing your head.” He was still lightly massaging Clark’s chest, even though the scoop of ointment had all been used up. Seeming to suddenly realize that, Bruce sat back and looked around the room, as if he had misplaced something. “Ah, you can,” he gestured to Clark’s shirt, reached over to tug it down over his chest, “you can pull that down now,” he said.

Their fingers brushed for a moment as Clark reached for the hem. He wondered if Bruce felt that same, sizzling zing as they touched. From the shaky look Bruce gave him, Clark really thought he might have.

~*~

Bruce got up from the bed and started to run a hand through his hair. He caught himself, made a face, and said, “You should lie down, try to sleep. I’ll just go wash this stuff off my hands.” He cast one more look around Clark’s bedroom, positive his marbles were hiding somewhere, and then headed for the bathroom.

He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He was supposed to be here to help Clark get over a cold, not to take every opportunity to molest him. Anyway, he decided as he briskly washed his hands and dried them, his good deed was done. Clark would likely be back to normal by morning – everything would be. This would simply go down as another in a long line of odd episodes.

His resolve faltered as he returned to the bedroom and saw Clark resting there, head turned to watch him. In the soft lamplight, with his hair tousled, and a more yielding and vulnerable cast to his features, Clark had never looked more … delectable. If Bruce didn’t know better, he would have sworn there was something downright come hither in those blue, blue eyes.

And, maybe he didn’t know better, actually.

“You’re leaving.” A flat statement, that audacious flare of hope fled from Clark’s eyes.

Bruce shrugged slightly. “It would be wise.”

Clark looked directly at him, an ember of hope still there. “Does everything have to be wise?”

Didn’t it? Bruce used to be so sure of the answer. “Everything will be different.”

“Different can be good.”

Bruce sighed, and stepped closer to the bed. “We haven’t even dated.”

“This could be a date,” Clark said, and reached out to catch hold of Bruce’s hand.

Able to stand firm on this one issue, at least, Bruce said, “ _This_ is definitely not a date. _This_ is what happens when you go charging off into danger and scare me half to death.”

Eyes wide, Clark said, “Batman’s never scared.”

Bruce sat down on the bed. “You would be surprised what Batman is,” he whispered, his free hand cupped along Clark’s face. Ridiculous, wasn’t it, to keep resisting, when they both wanted to surrender?

He smiled and tipped Clark’s face up, giving him a thoughtful look that weighed all the pros and cons, before leaning in to kiss him. Clark’s lips were dry and a little chapped, and he reeked of camphor, menthol, and eucalyptus. Even the most starry-eyed romantic would have to concede it wasn’t _exactly_ the best first kiss ever known. It was a start, though, something to build on.

Bruce settled down beside Clark and held him. He stroked his hair and pressed another kiss to his forehead and encouraged him to go to sleep. Everything would be different now, but it was odd: uncertainty had never looked better to him.

~*~

Clark sighed happily and burrowed closer to Bruce. He felt warm and comfortable, and sleepy. And he was really glad that, after this, he and Bruce wouldn’t have to wait until one of them was hurt to admit how much they cared.

It almost made him want to send Brainiac a thank you note.


End file.
